


piece talks

by graywhatsit



Series: Hatbots [11]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Hook-Up, Implied Sexual Content, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, hatbots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex Smith, as an adult, non-asexual man, has needs to attend to.</p>
<p>He just hopes to keep the bots out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	piece talks

**Author's Note:**

> brand new fic starring your favorite androids! not finished yet, and will take quite some time to do so, and will be very sporadic, because school. what can you do?  
> first mature fic written for public consumption! what a milestone.

Alex Smith, though inventive, creative, and pretty much the first person in the whole of human existence to create and sustain not one, but  _ two _ living, thinking, talking androids capable of human emotion, mechanical strength, and supercomputing thought processes, was a man.

A man right in the beginning stages, if not the direct middle, of his prime.

The age of twenty-seven surely counted as beginning, right? If silver foxes and salt-and-pepper dandies got to call their pushing sixty looks middle aged, he was a goddamned spring chicken and would continue to call himself as such for as long as possible. Denial was a huge river, and it flowed south to north-- it wouldn’t mind another hanging around its banks.

As such, he had needs and urges as any organic being did. He needed to consume, and dispose of waste materials, and get his allotted five hours a night, which was a real step up from a few years ago. Twenty-two year old Alex Smith would be  _ amazed . _

Turns out, for slightly healthier sleeping habits, build two personalities smart enough and obnoxious enough to bully you into bed when you started seeing four robots instead of two.

And make them strong enough to hold you down even during their sleep cycle, which was important and conducive to good rest, very much unlike tinkering with your smartphone until the wee hours. While mentally stimulating, nodding off so frequently and severely to the point of smashing delicate circuitry with equally delicate facial features was far from pleasant, both physically and financially.

The point was he was incredibly thankful for Ross and Trott, and not just for social reasons.

The other point was he kind of regretted creating them, just for social reasons.

This all trails back to the human needs topic: Smith was a healthy, average, non-asexual individual, and--

Well.

Ross and Trott, while fantastic vitriolic best friends of his, were not meant for anything even  _ close _ to sexual relations. It wasn’t the ‘male-ness’ of them, meaning the use of socially-accepted male pronouns and general acceptance of being referred to as guys, that put him off. Smith found, after a very brief and shallow look at himself during college, that, yes, his libido was equal-opportunity for just about whatever the world could throw at him. Just-- no parts for it, and no desire, as far as he knew. He’d made sure Trott knew the scientific dry-bones of human reproduction, and Trott told Ross everything he learned, even now. Those feelings, of arousal and attraction? Were chemical and electrical processes exclusive to organic beings, and why put them in your friendbots?

Besides, he’d  _ made _ them, which made even the weird, occasional squiggly-feeling in his chest squicky as all hell, and that was more than enough to quell whatever the hell his dick decided to feel about the whole situation.

So those particular needs weren’t taken care of, and hadn’t been since prototyping stages, unless you counted self-love, which.

A few days ago? Fast and not particularly fulfilling, in a five-minute lukewarm shower whilst his creations were out in the world somewhere. He hadn’t exactly cared at the time, so long as they weren’t around to hear.

The idea was. Just. There weren’t words, honestly.

It wasn’t enough to completely diffuse the frustration building up in his gut, though, and today, right in the middle of the shop, an honest-to-god package of sausages in his hands, he snapped.

“Tonight,” Smith said, throwing down the package in righteous and powerful resolve, “I’m going to go out, and actually  _ fuck _ somebody.”

The hum of the coolers was suddenly a little bit louder than on average, and, getting the odd, prickly feeling of being watched, turned to see a fellow shopper-- actually middle aged, probably, thin-haired and with a belly suggesting multitudes of sausages had been consumed by him in his time-- just watching him, not even blinking. It kind of reminded him of his bots.

“Alright,” the shopper said, nodding his head once in a probably-intended-to-be-supportive-but-was-actually-mortifying way, “good for you,” and turned on his heel to leave the aisle.

Once he was absolutely positive the accidental eavesdropper was gone, Smith promptly shoved his head into one of the coolers.

 

 

* * *

 

His resolve didn’t waver once through the rest of the day, as he checked the schedule taped up on the refrigerator-- “Because you can’t remember shit,” Trott had answered his question, only just this side of cuttingly snarky-- and skimmed through the list of bars around and open on a, god, Thursday night. Because yes, of course he’d pick a weekday to try his luck. Even during his pre-social outing shower, wherein he completely forgot the schedule he’d  _ just _ tried to memorize, wrapping a hand around himself before hearing the door slam open mid-stroke, effectively killing whatever mood he’d tried to create for himself.

_ In time, Smith,  _ he’d soothed, trying not to bang his head into the tile walls.  _ In time. _

His hair refused to become anything less than a giant pile of vaguely-auburn candyfloss, but at least his beard could be trimmed into something much more, hopefully, enticing. A nice gray-- no, green, because he apparently was only supposed to wear green now, at Ross’ confusing suggestion, but at least it wasn’t an  _ obnoxious _ shade-- button down and nice trousers and… serviceable shoes later, because he was not the type to wear much of anything other than his work boots, and dark trainers were his only other option, and he was good to go.

Hopefully.

Ross’ voice stopped him as he crossed the living room. “Why are you all dressed up?”

Smith blinked, hands freezing where they’d been adjusting his collar.

“Why are you upside down?”

Ross was, in fact, upside down. Legs up, hooked over the back of the couch, his back and shoulders pressed against the bottom cushions to keep himself from sliding off. He lifted an arm from over his belly to gesture, showing off his clear lack of belly button which he didn’t bother to try and hide. 

“Not important. Why are you dressed up?”

This was not the weirdest thing Smith had ever seen Ross do, so he didn’t press. “I’m going somewhere.”

“And here I thought you were dressing up for us.” Ross rolled his eyes, which became more common as time went on, because Smith was a terrible influence. “Where?”

“To a place where I can talk to people?” And possibly drink, if he were to strike out. Who knew? Maybe he was rusty after, what, half a decade? He paused, then amended, “You don’t count as people.”

“Don’t I?” 

Smith couldn’t be sure, but Ross may not have blinked throughout the entire conversation so far. “No.”

“Oh.” Ross frowned, just for a moment, before shrugging a shoulder-- a movement which had him sliding a few inches down the couch. It didn’t look very comfortable. “Want me to tell Trott? When will you be back?”

“If you want, and I don’t know. Soon.” At best, tomorrow, at worst, in a few hours. Smith finished fiddling with his clothes, having them as nice and straightened out as he could possibly get them, and got his keys from the bowl on the entrance table. “Just don’t burn anything down or try and steal a dog--”

“That was  _ one _ time--”

Smith ignored him. “And get a good night’s charge, okay? After your paper.”

“Trott has the paper, not me.” Ross’ mouth twisted what looked like downwards, but was really upwards on his face. “Do you even check the schedule?” At Smith’s completely  finished look, the twist became a full on grin. “Yes, dad, promise. Go.”

He never wanted to hear that from one of his bots ever again. With a powerful shudder, Smith closed the front door behind him before he could actually vomit.

You don’t pick up anyone with vomit breath.

 

 

* * *

 

Apparently, you did that with whisky breath.

Good to know.

It was louder and more crowded than anything in memory, on a  _ Thursday night _ , for fuck’s sake, with unusually fragile bodies-- at least, compared to what he’s used to-- bumping and brushing past Smith at such a rate that he may as well have been part of one cohesive solid, rather than a liquid sea of movement.

Not to mention smell, so strong even his poor human nose could detect; musky human pheromones, stinging rich alcohol, and cloying chemical smells clogging up his nose and washing away whatever remained of engine oil and his sharp orange-cinnamon scent that he put on not half an hour previous.

It was a struggle upstream, like the proverbial-- and, he supposed, literal-- salmon, to get up to the bar and get his first glass of amber courage. For a good several minutes, which really turned out to be an  hour , dear god, he stood at the bar, awkward and stiff, slowly nursing his drink and asking for a second when the beleaguered bartender had a spare second. An hour of uncomfortable standing and sipping. Amazing.

This wasn’t to say he never interacted with other organic human beings. He did go to uni, and he did have a job that required a decent amount of interpersonal interaction on his part. This was just…a different kind of interaction, and-- contrary to popular consensus, which consisted of his coworkers and literally no one else, as far as Smith knew-- he wasn’t the type to approach.

Not without a few good drinks in him, anyway.

He needed to scope out the room, first, so. It wasn’t  just awkwardness.

Just  _ mostly _ .

And thank fuck whisky actually turned off his science brain. After one and a half glasses of honest-to-god calling this another experiment, which it  _ wasn’t _ , he could feel the shame just about to swallow him whole.

There were other things that would be more than welcome to do such a thing, like--

The lanky, dark-haired guy over there, watching him, he realized, belatedly. Smith then winced physically, because even whisky couldn’t fucking help his inner monologues.

Or the fact that he  _ physically _ reacted to his own state of mental anguish. God.

Fuck it. Smith threw back the rest of the drink, because  _ courage _ (and tried not to show that what he had just done was a horrible idea and probably cleansed both his trachea and his larynx in holy liquid fire), and made his way over like an adult.

“Hey,” he started, which wasn’t really the  _ greatest _ opener, being just a generic greeting, but it seemed to work out pretty well. The baptism of his vocal cords certainly made a change for the better: husky and low without much of an effort on his part. The grin on the guy in front of him grew just that much more, eyes darting down just for a split second-- checking him out again?-- before looking up through long, thick lashes.

That. Now, that was a good feeling, hot and prickling up his spine, and he set an elbow on the bar, leaning just slightly.

“Hey.” Even if the flush on the guy’s cheeks was from drink or temperature rather than any kind of arousal or interest, the way his body leaned in was enough of a go-ahead for Smith.

Now, just to not cock it up.

Or.

_ Cocks do not come in on this part of the equation, so just. Smith, as yourself, I am begging you _ _,_ he thought to himself, quickly as possible because the time to say anything and not have it be massively and unforgettable awkward was quickly dwindling,  _ do not say anything about it. You can be charming! Do it! _

“Busy night, eh?” Smith hid a wince, shifting a little to let a passing patron through without bumping into them too much. He couldn’t afford to get drink all over this shirt-- it was way too nice to get stained.

The dark-haired man  _ hmmed _ , lifting his glass back up to his lips. Smith tried not to blatantly show he was tracking the motion with his eyes. “I was even about ready to leave, but…” he trailed off purposefully, shrugging a shoulder lightly.

“Found a reason to stick around?”  Similar story, really. Even if Smith had more than one reason, but mentioning that you can’t find the exit to the damned place? Not helping him out in the scoring area.

“A good reason.” The man smiled, and that was  _ definitely _ aimed at him. Rather than whittle away at whatever amount of game he’d had back in uni, it seemed the years gave him more of an edge. Where that edge lay, Smith couldn’t begin to guess, or refused to-- he was in no way old enough to be the sort of, uh,  _ mature _ person that seemed to be popular-- but it was an edge nonetheless. He’d take it.

Young though he may have been, his head was starting to throb along with the music playing, and whatever his current company was saying-- his full lips moved, which was  _ not _ a bad sight by any means-- was lost in the cloud of conversation hanging around them.  Leaning in a little closer did little to help, and the man’s brow furrowed into a frustrated v before he leaned in all the way, cupping his hand around Smith’s ear.

“Kinda loud-- wanna continue this somewhere else?”

Smith blinked when he pulled back, both face and mind blank for a split second before he actually began to parse meaning from the words. Oh.

Well.

That worked better than expected. Reining in his pleased look-- because honestly, if there was one thing short of making an absolute fool of yourself in front of everyone in response that could ruin this, grinning like an absolute goober would probably be it-- to a much more subdued half smile, he turned to the side, allowing his company to lead. Smith may not have known this guy’s name, and it was probable that he would  _ continue _ to not know, but he succeeded anyway.

Take  _ that _ , self-doubt.


End file.
